Every time I drive along Grand Avenue and see the enormous neon gun at Doc Holliday’s Saloon and Restaurant, I think about how difficult it is to achieve something like that with an advertisement, to make people remember it. It may seem exaggerated, old-fashioned or extravagant, but it’s hard to imagine that corner of Glenwood Springs without it.
That sign reminds me of an idea I proposed years ago in college: the city as an emerging canvas. The name sounds academic, although the question is simple. If in design we call the surface we work on a canvas, like paper, fabric, or wood, why not think of the city as a surface open to creativity?
There was a time when outdoor advertising was made mostly by hand, like the painted signs and old advertisements that can be seen from the parking lot next to the Glenwood Vaudeville Revue. If you’ve parked there before, you’ve probably seen them. And if you haven’t noticed, they’re worth taking a look at.
Before large-format printers, someone had to stand in front of a wall and work out by hand the size of the letters, their proportions and the spacing needed to make them readable. The sign painter’s craft brought together drawing, typography, composition and painting. Many of those signs gave businesses personality long before we talked about branding and brand management with such familiarity.
Then there were marquees and neon signs, which for much of the 20th century lit up hotels, theaters and restaurants. Over time, many gave way to options that were cheaper and easier to maintain.
This isn’t about idealizing that era. There were plenty of questionable advertisements: cigarette ads presented as symbols of health or sophistication; miracle products making promises that were difficult to back up; and campaigns we would now consider sexist or steeped in stereotypes. Bad taste, and bad advertising, existed long before Photoshop. What interests me is the craftsmanship behind those pieces and the relationship between the work, the person who made it and the place where it ended up.
Technology allowed us to produce faster, reduce costs and achieve extraordinary precision. As a designer, I value those possibilities, but I also wonder how much space we leave for things that take time and the marks of those makers.
Now, with artificial intelligence, that wondering takes on a different meaning. We can generate in seconds images that once required long days of work; but perhaps that sparks greater interest in a visible brushstroke, a texture or two letters that are never quite the same. At least for me, those idiosyncrasies make me want to get closer and take a look.
And I want to be clear: I’m in favor of using artificial intelligence, as long as we understand that it’s a tool that can complement and enhance human creativity, not replace it.
That is why I would like to revive that idea in our Valley. I imagine a coffee shop commissioning a local artist to paint a wall, a restaurant working with a muralist or a brand collaborating with a graffiti artist. Students, designers and craftspeople could also participate with storefronts and alleyways serving as meeting places.
I would not want to see the Roaring Fork Valley turned into a page filled with pop-ups. We already have enough of those on our phones. I am interested in advertising that contributes something to the place where it appears; something that allows a business to tell people who they are, to pay an artist for their work and to leave behind a piece that neighbors can enjoy.
We would have to think about what to communicate in each space and how to do it without overwhelming it. Besides, a blank wall can also be perfectly fine as is. The opportunity lies in recognizing where an intervention would make sense and allowing someone who knows the craft to propose something of their own.
The next time you walk through your town, from Parachute to Aspen, look at the walls you usually pass without noticing. Which one would make you stop? What artist from the Valley could do something there?
That is what I imagined when I talked about the city as an emerging canvas. Today, surrounded by images that appear simply by typing a prompt, I still find reasons to return to that idea. I would like our businesses to help create spaces and work for those who still have so much to say with their hands.
Translation assisted by artificial intelligence, and edited by Owen McArdleEvery time I drive along Grand Avenue and see the enormous neon gun at Doc Holliday’s Saloon and Restaurant, I think about how difficult it is to achieve something like that with an advertisement, to make people remember it. It may seem exaggerated, old-fashioned or extravagant, but it’s hard to imagine that corner of Glenwood Springs without it.
That sign reminds me of an idea I proposed years ago in college: the city as an emerging canvas. The name sounds academic, although the question is simple. If in design we call the surface we work on a canvas, like paper, fabric, or wood, why not think of the city as a surface open to creativity?
There was a time when outdoor advertising was made mostly by hand, like the painted signs and old advertisements that can be seen from the parking lot next to the Glenwood Vaudeville Revue. If you’ve parked there before, you’ve probably seen them. And if you haven’t noticed, they’re worth taking a look at.
Before large-format printers, someone had to stand in front of a wall and work out by hand the size of the letters, their proportions and the spacing needed to make them readable. The sign painter’s craft brought together drawing, typography, composition and painting. Many of those signs gave businesses personality long before we talked about branding and brand management with such familiarity.
Then there were marquees and neon signs, which for much of the 20th century lit up hotels, theaters and restaurants. Over time, many gave way to options that were cheaper and easier to maintain.
This isn’t about idealizing that era. There were plenty of questionable advertisements: cigarette ads presented as symbols of health or sophistication; miracle products making promises that were difficult to back up; and campaigns we would now consider sexist or steeped in stereotypes. Bad taste, and bad advertising, existed long before Photoshop. What interests me is the craftsmanship behind those pieces and the relationship between the work, the person who made it and the place where it ended up.
Technology allowed us to produce faster, reduce costs and achieve extraordinary precision. As a designer, I value those possibilities, but I also wonder how much space we leave for things that take time and the marks of those makers.
Now, with artificial intelligence, that wondering takes on a different meaning. We can generate in seconds images that once required long days of work; but perhaps that sparks greater interest in a visible brushstroke, a texture or two letters that are never quite the same. At least for me, those idiosyncrasies make me want to get closer and take a look.
And I want to be clear: I’m in favor of using artificial intelligence, as long as we understand that it’s a tool that can complement and enhance human creativity, not replace it.
That is why I would like to revive that idea in our Valley. I imagine a coffee shop commissioning a local artist to paint a wall, a restaurant working with a muralist or a brand collaborating with a graffiti artist. Students, designers and craftspeople could also participate with storefronts and alleyways serving as meeting places.
I would not want to see the Roaring Fork Valley turned into a page filled with pop-ups. We already have enough of those on our phones. I am interested in advertising that contributes something to the place where it appears; something that allows a business to tell people who they are, to pay an artist for their work and to leave behind a piece that neighbors can enjoy.
We would have to think about what to communicate in each space and how to do it without overwhelming it. Besides, a blank wall can also be perfectly fine as is. The opportunity lies in recognizing where an intervention would make sense and allowing someone who knows the craft to propose something of their own.
The next time you walk through your town, from Parachute to Aspen, look at the walls you usually pass without noticing. Which one would make you stop? What artist from the Valley could do something there?
That is what I imagined when I talked about the city as an emerging canvas. Today, surrounded by images that appear simply by typing a prompt, I still find reasons to return to that idea. I would like our businesses to help create spaces and work for those who still have so much to say with their hands.
Translation assisted by artificial intelligence, and edited by Owen McArdle